From 2025 to 2026

It’s been a really hard year for so many.

This is not a shallow effort to wrap your pain in poetry,

Nor to pretend it all had a bigger and more grand purpose.

Some things did not need to happen in order to make you wiser.

Some things honestly did not shape you, strengthen you, or make you better.

Some things just . . . hurt.

Was this the year that you lost someone you could not afford to lose?

Was this the year that your heart got tired of being the strong one, and you finally admitted to yourself that you are simply exhausted – in ways that no one else sees?

Was this the year when you realized that some friendships had expired, and the people who promised to stay forever are just strangers with a few shared memories?

Was this the year that your body had a mind of its own, and decided to betray your hopes and dreams?

Was this the year that jobs and money seemed to grow wings and fly away?

Was this the year that breathing became a hard way of life?

Perhaps this was the year that you questioned everything – your worth, your direction, and your faith. Feeling uncertain about everything all at once.

Perhaps this was the year that holding on has felt heavier than just letting go.

Perhaps this was the year that you learned disappointment comes from the people you trust the most.

Maybe this was the year that your faith – in people, in stability and security, even in yourself – cracked in ways and places that you do not have the words for.

 

I want to say this to YOU . . . today.

I am proud of you.

For surviving something that tried its hardest to break you.

For piecing yourself, and your life, together with parts that do not seem to fit.

For still laughing, still loving.

I am not here to tell you that all these trials and struggles have made you stronger.

I am not here to tell you that all of this is a lesson, or a gift, or something that you somehow needed.

Because – not everything is a blessing in disguise.

Sometimes, it is just LOSS.

Sometimes, it is just GRIEF.

Sometimes, it is just life being a bitch – harder than it should be.

 

BUT.

I am so very deeply glad that you are here.

Still fighting.

Still trying.

Still breathing.

Your presence means something – more than you may realize.

To this world.

To the people who love you and call you “theirs”.

To me.

 

If all you did this year was survive?

That is enough!

Because YOU are enough!

 

We are all trying to stay human through the most impossible things.

We are all moving forward from this moment – softly and gently.

I would ask that YOU stay.

And that YOU keep fighting, keep standing, keep breathing.

At a pace that YOUR Heart can bear.

 

I am here with YOU.

We will rise – together.

Thank YOU for choosing life – despite it all this year.

I love YOU.

 

Not my picture, just shared.
Seemed appropriate ;)

 

 

The Death Crawl

I keep thinking about Adam - how he walked with You, and talked with You, in absolute perfection - and yet, he was lonely.

I think about what Paul said about remaining alone.

I know YOU understand me better than I understand myself, better than I can explain.

But, God, I still feel guilty - shouldn't YOU be enough?

Why is my skin so hungry?

Why does my heart ache so deeply?

Why is my soul downcast within me so easily?

 

Is this the coming home of the meaning - take up Your cross and follow me, daily. 

Just for today.

TODAY. ? ? ?

I think about the movie, "Facing the Giants".

That one iconic scene.

The "death crawl"

Brock was blindfolded. 

On his knees, with 160 pounds on his back. 

His knees could not touch the ground.

Coach never left his side.

Coach never stopped talking to him, encouraging him, telling him he could do this.

Brock had to stop and rest a moment, take a breath, and push forward.

Coach did not take the weight off of him.

Coach did not allow him to quit.

Coach did not do the death crawl for him.

BUT - Coach was there, every step, every move, every breath.

When Brock didn't think he could go on, Coach got on the ground with him -

Coach could see where he was.

Coach could see how far he had come, and how close he was to victory.

Coach was on his hands and knees, using his voice until he was hoarse.

Coach didn't give up either.

Is this my death crawl? 

Will You be with me right there - as my Coach, as much as he was in that movie?

Is this the reality of being "surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses"? 

Like the team was surrounding Brock in the movie?

God, I have stopped so many times to catch my breath.

I have grown weak and weary.

My legs and arms are shaking.

How many more steps do I have within me? 

How many more steps must I take before I can rest?

God, help me.

5 smooth stones. 

FAITH.

Facing the giant of TODAY.

God, help me.

Save me O God. 

Only You can.

God, I don't know where I am at in this death crawl - 

I am blindfolded - I cannot see. 

But please, I just need to know without a doubt or question that You are here with me.

Even if I can't see Your Face, I need to hear Your Voice.

God, I'm tired, oh so weary. 

The weight is so heavy.

I am shaking all over.

My soul is on fire, there must be blisters on my heart by now.

Please dear God, Coach, don't leave me!

I cannot do this without You!

Only YOU know how far I have come.

Only YOU know how close is the victory.

Only YOU know how much longer I must bear this weight.

Please dear God, Coach - help me.

Christmas Eve 2025 Thoughts

I sat here in the stillness and quiet of the house, scrolling through Facebook, seeing all the Christmas posts and memes, reading comments on my own posts and answering those.

Struggling with the “Merry Christmas” words.

And wondering why.

This being my 11th Christmas without Rick, shouldn’t it be easier, come more natural to say those words, “Merry Christmas”?

But then, I think.

Those 2 words are so loaded for me.

They are not just a greeting.

They are a doorway into everything Christmas used to be with Rick.

The shared meaning.

The private language.

The quiet glances.

The laughter.

The conversations that made this season feel so inhabited, instead of simply performed.

Saying “Merry Christmas” feels like I am being asked, or expected, to summarize a complicated season in 2 words that are to be filled with good cheer and happiness.

As well as pretending there is continuity, instead of this rupture that has become my continuity.

Then, there is the speaking “joy and merry” aloud when what I truly feel is way too layered for 2 words – there is love, memory, absence, gratitude, ache, missing.

I am struggling with the words of “Merry Christmas” – not because I am bitter.

But because those words no longer match my internal truth – and it’s hard for me to be anything but honest and true.

Sigh.

For me, Christmas is not “Merry”.

It is meaningful.

It is tender.

It is heavy.

It is Beautiful.

And it is incomplete.

My soul knows the difference, and since I write and speak from the soul

– therein lies my struggle.

“Merry Christmas” is a broadcast phrase.

It is public and generalized.

My life, and my grief, are not.

I learned love through conversation.

Not slogans.

So, yes, the shorthand of “Merry Christmas” feels false.

That doesn’t mean Christmas has defeated me.

It means love, and loss, changed the way I speak.

It is not loss of faith, or even joy.

It does mean that I do not owe the season language it has not earned.

I am not doing Christmas wrong – just working to do it truthfully.

I do wish you peace this Christmas.

I think of each one of you so much, so often.

I hope today holds something gentle and even joy-filled for you.

You are so very LOVED!

Christmas 2025

O Lord God.

God of each and every season.

God of Christmas, too.

Will You help my broken heart, my weary mind, and my exhausted soul, to simply rejoice this Christmas?

I really do want to.

But God.

It’s been a long and difficult year.

Life is heavy, and oh so hard right now.

It’s all worn me thin.

Every breath is a struggle.

Every step is a fight.

Hope is more a rumor, or a memory, than a reality.

Joy is remembered, distantly in the past.

My soul is still standing – only because You hold me upright.

My smiles are from obedience, not overflow.

Even in knowing I am not alone in the weariness seems to do little in giving me strength.

But God.

Aren’t we the ones You were born in the manger for?

Didn’t You step into a night heavy with waiting?

Not into a world where all the ducks were in a row.

Not into a bright and shining castle.

But into a body bent by labor.

Into hearts bruised by abandonment and silence.

Into, and for, a people who had learned how to survive without answers.

You came.

Leaving all of Heaven’s glory – for this, for us.

Lord, rejoicing feels too big for me today.

Teach me the kind of joy that breathes softly.

The kind of joy that doesn’t deny the ache and emptiness –

But dares to hope against it all

The kind of joy that softly whispers through trembling lips and tear-filled eyes.

The kind of joy that just knows You are here, even though everything in me is empty.

Please, make this to be the season of holy interruptions.

Not with demands of feeling festive, just a simple invitation to look upon the Christ.

To lay my weariness there beside the manger, with Mother Mary’s.

To let Your nearness be enough.

Maybe rejoicing doesn’t always have to sound like laughter or look like twinkling lights.

Maybe rejoicing doesn’t always have to smell like baking and foods on the tables.

Maybe rejoicing doesn’t always have to have the words of a song.

Perhaps rejoicing can look like staying, being still, being quiet.

Perhaps rejoicing can look like believing when hope is shrouded in the fog.

Perhaps rejoicing can sound like a cracked heart saying, “I still trust You.”

May the Hope of this Christmas season be because You are Faithful, not because life is easy or fun.

May the Miracle of Christmas be in just breathing.

May my weary heart and soul rejoice this Christmas because You came into the darkness as Light and called us worth saving.

May the Lord Bless us and Keep us all in His tender care.

Not my picture, but one borrowed.

Mother Mary

I think about Mother Mary a lot – and even more at this time of year.

When the angel came to her, she did not argue, but in her humanity, she asked,

“How shall this be?”

Without judgment or condemnation, the angel pointed to her cousin Elisabeth –

Older. Barren. Forgotten hope that was now moving in her body.

This was a living testimony which breathed proof into Mary’s humanity.

Maybe that is exactly what God does for us now.

Placing miracles near the places that ache the most.

Just close enough for us to see, or hear about.

Just loud enough to disrupt the fears, the worries, that torment our hearts with doubt.

It’s too easy for me to resent it – seeing others receive what I have wept so intensely for in my secret darkness.

But perhaps, their blessing is not a comparison, or competition.

Perhaps it is a prophecy.

Perhaps it is a reminder of what God can do –

Even when I cannot imagine it any longer, or ask for it anymore.

Yes, my humanity is all too real, too heavy.

I am tired of waiting.

My fear is the mountain.

My faith is just a tiny mustard seed.

God is nudging me, softly and gently, to simply trust Him.

To surrender my humanity into His understanding.

He’s asking me to remember Elisabeth – and how that barren prayers fill with life.

And to remember that He is near, He is God.

And He is possible in the face of impossibility.

I hope that maybe when my hands are shaking, and my voice is cracking, that He will have someone look at me the way Mary looked at Elisabeth –

With awe

With relief

With rekindled faith –

And whisper,

“Because you said yes. Because you held on. Because you did not let fear have the last word. Me, too.”

Lord, with my trembling, in the midst of living with this grief, in the hollow echo of prayers not yet answered –

Remind me of the Elisabeths in my life.

Surround me with that living proof in humanity – that YOU are here.

And when my time comes, may my life be the reassurance You give to another trembling heart so that they too can say, “Yes Lord, here am I. Let it be.”

 

The Quiet Ache of Faith

𝑰𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔.

𝑻𝒐 𝒑𝒓𝒂𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎.

𝑻𝒐 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝑭𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑯𝒐𝒑𝒆.

𝑻𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒕𝒐 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆 – 𝒔𝒂𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈, “𝑯𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑯𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑯𝒆’𝒔 𝒈𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔.”

𝑻𝒐 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒎𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚.

𝑰 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝑰 𝒔𝒂𝒚, 𝒐𝒓 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 – 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔, 𝒐𝒓 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇.

𝑰𝒕’𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒎𝒐𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑰 𝒄𝒓𝒚 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝑱𝒆𝒔𝒖𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒆.

𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒎𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆 –

𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒏𝒐 𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒔 –

𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒈𝒓𝒊𝒑𝒔 𝒎𝒆 –

𝑰 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝑰 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒙𝒄𝒆𝒑𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒐𝒇 𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒔.

𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒆.

𝑰 𝒅𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒅𝒐𝒖𝒃𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝑮𝒐𝒅.

𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝑯𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕.

𝑰 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑮𝒐𝒅 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒅𝒐 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑯𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒐.

𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒔𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒚 𝒑𝒖𝒕, 𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑯𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒐.

𝑰𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆. 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒎𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆. 𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆.

𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒔𝒖𝒏𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑯𝒆 𝒔𝒑𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕.

𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒅𝒓𝒐𝒑 𝒐𝒇 𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑯𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒓𝒚𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉.

𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒍𝒖𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑯𝒆 𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝑯𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒆𝒕 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒔 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕.

𝑴𝒚 𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒆𝒔, 𝒎𝒚 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔, 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒃𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚.

𝑰𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒆, 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒆.

𝑰𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒐𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒎𝒆.

𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝒓𝒐𝒄𝒌-𝒔𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒅 𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆, 𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔 – “𝑯𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑯𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒃𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑯𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑯𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑯𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖.”

𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒌𝒚 𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒔𝒌𝒔,

“𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒆?

𝑯𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝑰 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒔𝒍𝒊𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒔?

𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒅𝒈𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔, 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐?”

𝑨𝒎 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆, 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒓𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒔?

𝑫𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆, 𝒅𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒓 – 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈.

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝑯𝒐𝒑𝒆, 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒎𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑾𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒖𝒕.

𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒇 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒋𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏.

𝑴𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎𝒔 𝒔𝒐 𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚, 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔, 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝑯𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒆𝒊𝒗𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇.

𝑷𝒆𝒓𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑮𝒐𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒌 𝒔𝒐 𝒐𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒏, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒐 𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒚, 𝒕𝒐 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 –

𝑰𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑮𝒐𝒅 𝑾𝒉𝒐 𝒊𝒔 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒚, 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔, 𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇.

𝑴𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝑭𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒆 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 –

𝑴𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝑽𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒅𝒍𝒚 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒆 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔 –

𝑴𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕.

𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔.

𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒆𝒂𝒔.

𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒆.

𝑱𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒔𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒚, 𝑯𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒚 𝑯𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒆.

𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝑭𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔.

𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝑽𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆.

𝑻𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒔.

𝑴𝒚 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒍 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒆𝒕𝒔 –

𝑮𝒐𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒆.

𝑮𝒐𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒆𝒇𝒕 𝒎𝒆.

𝑮𝒐𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒐 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒆.

𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔.

𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍.

𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑮𝒐𝒅 𝑾𝒉𝒐 𝒄𝒂𝒏 . . .

𝑩𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑮𝒐𝒅 𝑾𝒉𝒐 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍.

Deeper

 In this world of being a widow, everyone seems to be moving forward but me.

Others are building, blossoming, becoming.

I watch them go forward, with eyes shining bright, with firm steps, with feet that seem so sure upon that same ground that crumbles beneath my own steps.

I see their timelines on social media – blooming with new beginnings, with milestones and with miracles.

Here I am. 

Just as I am.

My feet, up to my knees, buried in the muck and mire of just breathing.

I’m tired of thinking that I am stuck, or that I have missed something.

Perhaps, just maybe . . . I am only buried.

Maybe the darkness that surrounds me is not a delay, maybe it is a depth.

Maybe I am not behind, maybe I am simply being held.

Drinking coffee early one morning, I heard the slightest Whisper.

“You are not moving backward. You are not stuck. You are moving deeper. You are becoming stronger.”

Deeper into the ache that I used to try and numb.

Deeper into the questions that I used to silence.

Deeper into the Presence that I used to fear, because It asked more of me than to just survive, just to endure.

I do not see myself as blooming.

But I am becoming.

Roots do not shout.

Foundations are not trendy.

Wells are not seen from the surface viewpoints – but they are where the water flows.

Yes, others may be moving forward, and I hope they are moving deeper, too.

Deeper into the mystery.

Deeper into the realness of Faith.

Deeper into trusting the Lord when so very afraid.

I asked God for a breakthrough, He gave me a burial – so He could raise me different.

I asked God for a forward life, He gave me depth – so I would not collapse under pressure.

There is an altar in my silence.

There is an oil pressing in this crushing.

I cannot chart the distance – how far I have to go –

But I know I am not lost.

I am planted – for His growing.

Not still, just unseen.

As the old Gospel song says, “God of the mountaintop is God of the valley.”

God is not threatened by the slowness.

God is not offended by my cries.

God is not in a rush.

He knows what glory costs.

He knows how to resurrect what has been buried in surrender.

Thank You, God . . . I am not behind.

Thank You, God . . . I am not stuck.

Thank You, God . . . I am not forgotten.

Thank You, God . . . I am being rooted.

Thank You, God . . . I am moving deeper.

And God, Thank You – for seeing, for hearing, for knowing, more than I do 😉